


we took the slow way

by fadeastride



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 09:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3604371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeastride/pseuds/fadeastride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pat’s still thinking about all the obnoxious door-to-door things he could be when the door swings open and <i>holy shit</i>. He has <i>got</i> to be better about meeting his neighbors if more of his neighbors look like this guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we took the slow way

**Author's Note:**

> This started as an "I live below you and I keep getting your mail" au. I don't know what happened.
> 
> Thanks to Xochi and Alex for looking this over.
> 
> Title from "Walls" by Stars.

Pat’s pretty good about checking his mail every day. It’s a tiny mailbox and the one time he went a few days without checking it, the mail carrier had left him the most passive aggressive note telling him the rest of his mail was at the post office and maybe he should submit a hold mail request next time he’s gonna be on vacation.

The guy’s a dick, pretty much, but yeah. The point is, Pat gets his mail every day.

And then leaves it on the table in the entryway for at least a week before he actually looks at it.

Turns out the mailman’s kind of shit at his job, because this week he’s got no fewer than four envelopes addressed to some dude named Toes who apparently lives directly above him. A couple of them even look like they might be important so, as much as he didn’t want to put on pants on his day off, Pat’s pulling on some sweats and flip flops to make the trek upstairs.

He’s really hoping nobody’s home so he can just push the mail under the door and get back to watching last night’s SportsCenter. But when he knocks, he hears this deep voice call out “Coming!” (which, like, who even does that? Pat could be a Jehovah’s Witness or vacuum cleaner salesman or something, why would you ever let people know you’re home before looking out the peephole, Jesus) and the sound of cupboards closing.

Pat’s still thinking about all the obnoxious door-to-door things he could be when the door swings open and _holy shit_. He has _got_ to be better about meeting his neighbors if more of his neighbors look like this guy.

He’s staring, he knows he’s staring, but the guy just smiles at him, a little confused.

“Hello?” the guy says slowly.

Pat snaps back to reality. “Hey, are you, uh, Jonathan?” The guy, Jonathan apparently, nods. “I live downstairs. I got some of your mail last week.” He brandishes the envelopes in front of him.

Jonathan’s face lights up in recognition. “Wait, are you Patrick? This came yesterday; I hadn’t had a chance to bring it down yet.” He pulls a large padded envelope off the floor next to the doorway.

Pat hisses out a _yes_ and takes the envelope, rips it open right in the middle of the hall. He pulls the jersey out and lets the packaging fall to the floor.

“Oh,” he breathes out. “It’s perfect.”

The corner of Jonathan’s mouth quirks like he’s tamping down a smile. “Sabres? Really? You’ve got terrible taste.”

Pat feels his ears go red and he tosses the jersey over his shoulder. “You shut your mouth when you’re talking about my hometown team, man.”

Jonathan snorts and, after a moment, leans in conspiratorially. “I’ve got a confession to make,” he says in a stage whisper, eyes flicking from one end of the hall to the other in an exaggerated show of secrecy. “I’m a Jets fan.”

Pat chokes on a laugh. “God, we’ve _both_ got terrible taste.”

The guy smiles, wide and just the wrong side of goofy-looking, and says, “Yeah. Yeah, we do.”

It’s weird. Pat doesn’t know this guy, didn’t even know he existed until 20 minutes ago, but he _wants_ to know him. Maybe it’s just because he’s got so few friends in this god-forsaken huge city, but he really does.

So he swallows against the nervousness bubbling in his throat and aims to be as casual as possible when he says, “Hey, our teams are playing each other next week. Wanna come over and watch the shitshow with me?”

There’s that goofy smile again. “I’ll bring the beer.”

Pat's too charmed to think this might be a problem.

Wednesday night, about half an hour to puck drop, there’s an uncertain knock on Pat’s door. When he looks through the peephole (like a normal human being, thank you), he sees Jonathan in a worn Jets tee, a six pack of some local craft beer in each hand.

He opens the door.

“Oh, good, I wasn’t sure if you were directly below me or-“

“You brought hipster beer,” Pat interrupts.

“You don’t have to drink it.”

Pat squints at him. “Uh, it’s free beer, Jonathan. I kind of do.”

Jonathan wrinkles his nose. “Jonny.”

“Huh?”

“Only my mom calls me Jonathan. Call me Jonny.”

“Okay, well, free beer, Jonny. I’m gonna drink it.”

Jonny grins at him. “We could make a bet? Fan of the losing team buys the beer next time. Then you can pick whatever you want.”

Pat gasps in mock indignation, hand clutched to his chest, and makes to close the door in Jonny’s face. “Not even in my apartment yet and you’re insulting me, what a terrible guest you are.”

Laughing, Jonny shoulders his way into the apartment, shoves one of the six-packs into Pat’s chest. “Shut up and take your free beer, Patrick.”

The game’s a clusterfuck, as expected. Pat’s pretty sure he skated better than some of these guys when he was in diapers. Still, it’s a lot easier to enjoy the game with Jonny swearing and laughing right along with him.

“Did you know,” Jonny says during first intermission, pointing his beer in Pat’s general direction, “that we have the exact same couch?”

“We do not.”

Jonny looks at him with faux solemnity. “Ikea is the savior of broke twenty-somethings everywhere.”

He’s pink-cheeked and bright-eyed and gorgeous, draped languidly across Pat’s stupid couch, and all Pat can think as he laughs is _well shit_.

The fucking Jets do win, because of course they do, squeezing out a second goal in the waning seconds of the third. Pat screams at the tv, cursing the refs, the defense, that overturned goal in the first, and the mothers of at least three players. He turns to Jonny after, half thinking about apologizing for the tirade, to find Jonny smirking at him.

“So,” Jonny drawls. “You got the beer next time, yeah?”

Pat throws a pillow at him.

It becomes a thing. Every week, they pick a game to watch together, and whoever bet on the losing team the week before has to bring the beer. 

(Jonny doesn’t bring those craft beers again, shows up instead with shitty Canadian beer or whatever was on sale. Pat calls him out on it once, teases him about giving up the charade of having any class, but Jonny gets all embarrassed about it.

“It was our first time hanging out, I wanted to impress you,” Jonny had muttered, face flaming. “God only knows why, you’re kind of a massive shithead.”

Pat hadn’t chirped him about it again.)

During intermissions, they get to know each other.

Pat learns that Jonny’s been working at the Trib for about a year now, busting his ass for an editor who still sends him to cover shit like city council meetings like they don’t have interns for that. Pat can empathize; he’s been at Sharp Consulting since he was still in school and even now there are days he ends up making coffee runs when that new kid from Pittsburgh’s pretty much gagging to do anything Sharpy tells him.

He learns that Jonny's true interests lie in stories, in people, in the underdogs and have-nots, in the kind of features his editor seems reluctant to assign him. He's been working on a piece on his own about the local effects of the prison industrial complex and he's gonna pitch it when he's got something concrete. 

He learns that Jonny's got a little brother, and he tells him about his sisters. Pat tells tales of hair full of bows and protecting his sisters' honors from gross teenage boys. Jonny shares stories of pond hockey and testosterone and lips fat from fighting.

He learns that Jonny's shitty taste in hockey teams stems from the fact that he's actually from Winnipeg, that he's only in Chicago because of work.

He learns that Jonny's got a stupid dry sense of humor, that he thinks he's funnier than he actually is, that he can't talk shit worth a damn. He learns the way the corner of Jonny's mouth twitches when he thinks he's just said something brilliant, the way his eyes crinkle when he's trying not to laugh, the way he scrubs his hand over the back of his neck when he doesn't know what to say. 

Mostly Pat learns that he's royally fucked.

Pat likes to think he's subtle about his big stupid crush, but there's only so many text messages he can smile at before his boss catches on.

Sharpy's always had this way of getting the truth out of Pat, and that way is alcohol. He's got no problem using it anytime he thinks he needs to. 

Which is why Pat is lying on his stomach in the middle of Sharpy's living room floor, six beers and an unknown number of shots swirling in his gut.

"He's just so. I don't know, man. He's got the dumbest laugh and these fucking zombie eyes and horrible taste in hockey teams. But he’s smart and nice when he wants to be and he’s got this deadpan humor and these _shoulders_ , and ugh.”

“And you wanna bang him.”

Pat groans and rams his face into the carpet. “Right through the mattress.”

Sharpy kicks him in the ribs. “So tell him.”

“Pfft, god no. He’s like the only friend I’ve got here who isn’t you, I’m not fucking that up.”

“Your choice. Either way, you know I’m gonna have to meet him.”

“Oh, sweet merciful baby Jesus.”

"I gotta make sure he's good for you, Peeks," Sharpy says, all faux sincerity.

Pat is right to be terrified, he knows it.

By the time Pat gets back to his place, he’s sobered up considerably, but his headache isn’t even nearing manageable. He ducks into the mailroom on his way to the elevator.

He almost has to reevaluate his level of drunkenness when he doesn’t understand a single word on the cover of the magazine he pulls out. Like, how the fuck did he get drunk enough to make himself illiterate? Eventually he recognizes the word “garcon” and realizes the damn thing’s in French. He squints the address label into focus.

Toews.

Of course.

When Jonny opens the door, Pat’s standing there, eyebrow cocked.

“Seriously, dude?” he asks, thrusting the magazine into Jonny’s hands.

Jonny looks it over.

“What?”

“It’s in French.”

“And?”

“Since when do you speak French?”

“Uh, since I learned how to talk.”

Pat groans. “Oh my god, I’m entirely too hung the fuck over to even deal with you right now.”

He turns to head for the elevator but Jonny catches the back of his shirt and hauls him back through the door, pushing him toward the couch.

“Go sit down while I get you some water, you fucking dumbass. I don’t trust you not to die.” The words are harsh but there’s no heat to them. Pat can’t help but smile as he flops onto the couch, head lolling against the cushions.

Jonny reappears with a glass and some Advil that Pat makes grabby hands at. Instead, Jonny sets them both on the coffee table.

“Sit up. You can lie down later.”

Pat grunts. “You’re the worst. First you manhandle me into your apartment, now you’re being mean to me in my hour of need.”

“Hour of need, my ass. I'm gonna make you a sandwich and then you're going to sleep, okay?"

He knows better than to argue.

Pat wakes up to the tv on low and his feet in Jonny’s lap. Jonny’s asleep, head tilted backward, mouth open, and Pat lets himself watch for a while. Lets himself get lost in the splay of eyelashes against Jonny's cheek, in the tuft of hair that won't lay flat, in the soft rhythm of his snore.

When Jonny wakes back up, it’s this slow, languorous thing, arms raised overhead and mouth stretched in a yawn. He looks at Pat, soft, like he’s blinking him into clarity. He smiles, gentle, and Pat feels himself soften at the edges.

“Feel better?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep.

Pat nods, ignoring the way his stomach flutters. He grinds his heel into Jonny’s thigh instead, making him yelp.

“Hey, is it cool if a friend of mine joins our thing next week? I’m trying to get him to leave his house occasionally.”

Jonny slaps Pat’s feet out of his lap. “Sure, man. Whatever you want.”

Pat doesn’t want this at all.

Sharpy and Jonny have been sizing each other up since they both got to Pat’s. Pat thinks maybe they should have picked a different game than Hawks vs. Jets.

“I bet you fifty bucks the Hawks score twice in the first.”

Jonny eyes him. “Fuck you, make it a hundred.”

“Oh oh oh, we got a high roller tonight. You’re on.”

There’s no way in hell Pat’s getting involved in this one.

With three minutes left in the first, Hossa nudges the puck over the line and Jonny’s string of curses is drowned out by Sharpy crowing, “That’s two! Pay up, Jonny-boy!”

Jonny opens his wallet with short, deliberate movements, and hands the money over with a calm-sounding, “Fuck off.” Sharpy just grins and makes a show of pocketing the bills.

Sharpy’s the least gracious winner ever, though, and spends the rest of the game taunting Jonny, a steady stream of “Sorry man, I only get beer for winners,” and “I don’t know if losers deserve pizza” while Jonny’s jaw goes more and more tense.

He finally snaps, “I’m gonna beat the fuckin shit outta you, Thunder Bay.” Pat’s known him long enough to realize he might actually mean it.

“I mean, you’re welcome to try,” Sharpy smiles, more a baring of teeth than anything else. “I’m really not that pretty, if you wanna go.”

Pat rolls his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, nobody’s fighting anybody tonight, both of you shut the fuck up and watch the game.” Jonny and Sharpy are still eyeballing each other. “I’m serious, Jesus, knock it off.”

The rest of the game plays out without much excitement and Jonny heads out not long after the game ends.

Sharpy collects his empties and carries them toward the kitchen. “I like him, Peeks. He’s a good dude.” Pat takes a sip of his beer and listens to the clatter of Sharpy dumping the bottles in the sink.

“Pretty sure he thinks we’re fucking though.”

Pat spits his beer right into his lap.

“What the FUCK.”

Sharpy laughs. “He obviously hates me. Every time I touched you, I thought he was gonna punch me.”

“Is _that_ why you kept touching me?”

“I was testing a theory.” Sharpy throws himself bodily onto the couch. “That theory being, does he hate me touching you, presumably because he wants to bang you. And man. Preliminary evidence points to yes.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Sharpy scoots back a little. “It’s not a perfect experiment, by any means. Just. Think about it, yeah?”

Pat absolutely does not.

For, oh, three whole days.

But a bad day at work makes him miss Jonny and he shows up at Jonny’s place unannounced with takeout to find him looking reserved and confused and not like Jonny at all. He only half cares, though, because today fucking sucked and he needs to vent, like, now.

“Sharpy was a royal dick all fucking day, please tell me you’re free to eat this pizza and listen to me bitch for a while.”

Jonny lets him in.

“Like, I don’t even get it, the team for a completely different client fucked up their numbers and he just dropped like ten pounds of files on my desk and told me to fix it by Friday. What the fuck, right? And he’s suspending my other projects until I finish cleaning up some idiot’s mess.” Jonny’s gaping at him. “What?”

Jonny’s face contorts. “Sharpy’s your boss? I thought you guys were, like, college buddies or something.”

“We sort of are, except for right now because he’s a magnanimous prick. Wait. You really didn’t know that he’s my boss?”

“I threatened him and insulted his hometown, Patrick. I really didn’t know. I’m so sorry.” Johnny looks so, so earnest.

Pat tilts his head. “Why are you sorry? Dude, we’ve been giving each other shit since day one. Literally since the day I met him.”

Jonny’s still staring at him, jaw working nervously like he wants to apologize again.

“No, okay, hold on, let me tell you about how I met Sharpy. I was still in school, right? And there’s a Starbucks on campus where I used to hang out and do my homework. One day, I’m working through this problem set when some asshole leans on my chair. I’m about to tell him to fuck off but he’s like, ‘Hey, keep working, I wanna watch,’ which, fuck this guy, but whatever. So I keep working. Finally the guy’s like, ‘Pretty ballsy of you to do all this in ink. What if you fuck up?’”

“What an asshole,” Jonny says, but he’s smiling now.

“Right? So I’m like, ‘Then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t fuck up.’”

“Bullshit, you have never been that quick.”

“Fuck you, I swear to god that’s what I said. Then he sits down at my table and is all, ‘Patrick Kane, right?’ Which, like, that depends on who’s asking. I don’t know this guy. But he’d introduced himself, said Sharp Consulting was looking for an intern and that one of my professors had suggested me.”

“So you took an internship with some random guy who was kind of a dick to you?”

Pat throws his head back and laughs, loud. “Jonny, man, not just any internship. That shit was _paid_.”

Jonny’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit.”

“That’s what I’m _sayin’_. And it was what I wanted to do. After I graduated, he hired me on full time. We hang out sometimes but I invited him to our thing cuz Abby, his wife, was out of town for a few days. He gets all mopey and stupid when she’s gone.”

Pat’s fairly certain he’s not imagining the way Jonny’s shoulders loosen when he mentions Abby. He thinks maybe Sharpy was right. He resolves to fucking never admit that to Sharpy.

The next time Jonny comes over to watch a game, Pat wiggles his toes under Jonny's thighs halfway through the first. Jonny doesn't question it at all, just rests a hand on his ankle, thumb rubbing slow circles around the bone while his eyes follow the puck. Pat thinks he might be smiling, just a tiny flick at the corners, and it warms him through. 

After the game, Jonny bro-hugs him at the door, which is a new thing. His stomach goes all fuzzy, like static on an old tv, and he waits until Jonny’s gotten to the stairwell to close the door. He stands there for long minutes, fingers pressing in around his navel, willing the static to settle.

Later, as he waits for sleep, he tries not to think of all the things he wants.

He ends up thinking about them anyways.

A week before his birthday, Jonny finds out that the article he’s been working on is slated for the front page of Sunday’s Trib. Pat only finds out by accident.

Pat’s half-watching some terrible sci-fi movie and dicking around on his phone when there’s a knock at his door.

Jonny slurs a greeting at him before cheerily announcing, “’m drunk!”

“Yes, you definitely are. Why’d you get drunk without me, asshole?”

“Guys from work took me out.” He wanders over to the couch, perches on the arm of it. “My story’s gonna be front page tomorrow. Front page, Pat!”

“Dude, that’s. Holy shit, that’s amazing. Why didn’t you tell me? I’m gonna buy a copy, that’s fuckin’ great.”

“No, no, don’t. It’s really not important,” Jonny says, jerkily shaking his head. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Of course it is, man. It’s totally a big deal. I mean, come on, it’s you.”

Jonny’s gone a little wild around the eyes, stuttering out “it’s fine”s and “you really don’t have to”s and “please don’t”s like he hasn’t spent the last ten years of his life working for this.

“Hey, hey, shut the fuck up. God help me, but you’re my best friend. If it matters to you, it matters to me, okay? Because you matter to me.” Pat shrugs his shoulder a little. “You’re kind of the best thing in my life right now.”

The silence is heavy and Pat would worry more if Jonny were less drunk. But as it stands, Jonny’s trashed and Pat’s maybe feeling brave enough to play his cards. 

He scrubs his toe against the carpet, catches Jonny tracking the movement. “You’re kind of the best thing that’s ever happened to me, actually.”

When he finally looks up, Jonny’s mouth-breathing hard and looking a little like he might throw up.

“I can’t do this drunk” is all he says before he breezes back out of Pat’s apartment.

Pat resolutely Does Not Think About It, and goes to bed instead.

He continues to Not Think About It in the morning, eating breakfast and going for a jog like normal. He takes a detour on the way back home, stops in at the little corner store to grab a copy of the Trib. There, beneath the carefully crafted headline, are the words in bold-faced capital letters: BY JONATHAN TOEWS. A sense of pride swells in Pat’s chest and it stays with him the rest of the way home.

Long about noon, he gets a text.

_I need to fuckin murder something greasy asap. you down?_

_morning sunshine. sounds good. meet down here?_

There’s a knock at the door ten seconds later. When he opens it, Jonny’s standing there, looking sheepish.

“Did you literally text me from the hallway, man?”

Jonny bites back a grin. “I knew you’d say yes. You’re kind of easy for hanging out with me.”

“Yeah, whatever. Hey, lemme change my shirt real quick and we’ll head out.” He’s already turned toward his bedroom. 

As if on cue, Jonny’s stomach rumbles. “Hurry the fuck up, man, I’m starving.”

When he comes back into the living room, Jonny’s holding Pat’s copy of the paper.

“You actually bought it,” he says, voice flat.

Pat smooths a hand over his hair. “I said I would.”

“You say a lot of shit.”

“Not about stuff like this.” Pat swallows. “Not about you.”

He can’t read the look on Jonny’s face at all.

“I was, uh. I was gonna get it framed. For your birthday.”

Jonny’s hands are trembling, paper fluttering gently in his grasp. 

“Did you mean it?” He asks. “What you said last night?”

“Yeah.” Pat meets his eyes, wills himself not to blink. “Yeah, I meant it.”

“I didn’t know. I mean, I didn’t think-“ He’s walking toward Pat, wide strides quickly closing the distance between them. “I didn’t think you-“

“You know,” Pat says, curling a hand around the back of Jonny’s neck. “For someone so smart, you’re pretty fucking dumb sometimes.” He pulls Jonny closer.

Jonny lets the paper drop, fists both his hands in Pat’s shirt, and leans in.

Finally getting his mouth on Jonny’s makes the five months of waiting seem worth it, and Jonny’s still trying to fucking talk.

“I didn’t realize until last night,” Jonny’s rambling as Pat’s nosing his way along Jonny’s jaw. “But I was so drunk and I just, I thought maybe I was wrong, and then I thought maybe I wasn’t wrong, but I didn’t want to be drunk the first time I kissed you, and –“

Pat bites his lip. “I know, I know, we’re both so fucking slow, but we got here, right? We got here. Now will you please shut up and fucking kiss me already?”

Jonny stops talking. 

Instead, he slides his hands down the backs of Pat's thighs and hauls him up, gets Pat's legs around his waist. 

"Fucking asshole," Pat grumbles, but he's smiling into the side of Jonny’s neck.

“You like it.” Jonny sounds smug as hell and Pat knows it shouldn’t make his stomach swoop like that but he feels too much like he’s floating to be bothered.

Which is when Jonny dumps him unceremoniously on the couch.

“Fucking _asshole_ ,” he sputters, but Jonny’s moving quickly to bracket Pat’s hips with his knees.

“Did you know,” Jonny asks, hands pushing at the hem of Pat’s shirt. “Did you know that I’ve wanted to kiss you since you pulled out that stupid fucking jersey in the middle of my hallway?”

Pat tugs him down, sucks a livid bruise right at the base of his throat.

“I brought that stupid beer because I wanted you to like – oh Christ.” He squeezes his eyes shut, mouth falling wide as Pat rolls his hips beneath him.

“We’ve got all the time in the world to talk, but right now, just, just, come on.”

Jonny tugs his shirt over his head while Pat fumbles with his own buttons and _goddamn_ shirtless Jonny is a thing of fuckin’ beauty. Pat stills, staring, and Jonny takes advantage, working Pat’s fly open and pulling his pants down his thighs. 

"Shit, Pat, get these off-"

"You too, hurry up, c'mon."

Jonny kicks his pants off and licks his palm, wraps his hand around them both, and Pat feels his breath fail him at the contact. Jonny’s hands are huge, smooth skin and long fingers, and Pat can’t even bring himself to look at them because he wants them everywhere. Instead, he closes his eyes and fucks up into Jonny’s fist a little, focuses on the sounds spilling out of Jonny’s mouth. At some point he realizes that some of the sounds are real words, catches things like _fuck_ and _Jesus_ and _Patrick_ in the fog.

He’s got Jonny’s weight pinning his thighs and Jonny’s hand on his cock and Pat’s almost embarrassed by how fast he knows this is going to be over. Jonny mouths along his collarbone, tonguing a trail of warm and wet, and gives a vicious twist of his wrist. Pat loses it hard, short blunt nails digging crescent moons into Jonny’s biceps while he shakes. Jonny swears under his breath and it’s not long before he’s gasping, adding to the mess cooling on Pat’s stomach.

He flops next to Pat on the couch, throwing his arm over Pat’s chest.

“Hey,” he says, nosing at Pat’s cheek.

“Hey yourself,” Pat replies, looping his arm over Jonny’s.

“This means we can hang out even after hockey’s over, right?”

“You’re a moron.” Pat rolls his eyes so hard that it actually hurts a little but he’s smiling wide. “An absolute fucking moron.”

Jonny laughs, almost a cackle, and Pat can’t believe he’s so irredeemably fond of this guy.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm embarrassing [here](http://fadeastride.tumblr.com) on a daily basis.


End file.
